You say the hill’s too steep to climb.
(Chiding)
You say you’d like to see me try.
(Climbing)
You pick the place and I’ll choose the time,
And I’ll climb
The hill in my own way;
Just wait a while, for the right day.
And as I rise above the treeline and the clouds,
I look down
Hear the sound of the things you said today.

I took up residence for awhile, right where I was on the ladder.

I didn’t care to look down; those people were beneath me. I didn’t care to look up; I’d become comfortable where I was. I refused to deal closely with anyone above or below, just those select few who were there on the rung with me.

It took a long while to realize I was stagnating. Then some of the select few took steps away from me. Some up, some down.

I was close to being a total hermit when I woke up to my own complacency.

I stirred on the ladder and looked long and hard in both directions. I’d always known what was possible; I chose to ignore it in exchange for comfort. I’d forgotten security comes at the price of indifference, detachment, apathy.

Worse, I’d successfully suppressed one of my own koans, that control is an illusion.

I took a few steps up. Some expected me to wait for them and were surprised, hurt, and angry when I did not. Some were upset for years after I went past or beyond them. Some remain so. The truth is I am not very much further along than they are. I simply chose not to wait.

The climb continues with or without anyone’s consent.

Some chose a place and have never moved. Some took my place, whether they know it or not. Some follow. Some are with me. Some went around me and came back down again. Some have fallen, from both above and below. Some have passed. Some have long surpassed.

I know where I am on the ladder. Do you?

Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd.
(Smiling)
Merciless, the magistrate turns ’round
(Frowning)
And who’s the fool who wears the crown?
Go down in your own way,
And everyday is the right day.
And as you rise above the fear lines in his frown,
You look down
Hear the sound of the faces in the crowd.

(Thanks to the Divine Miss M for the inspiration on this one.)

I don’t know the reason, but Christopher Titus has been dropped from the Improv calendar for February. I was really looking forward to his show, too.

On the bright side, Norm MacDonald will be there February 21st through 23rd. I may go just to see if he can keep me in stitches.

My doctor will be so unhappy with me if he doesn’t.

It just occurred to me that I’m on my last one.

EVER.

I am elated.

… that tech support customer service could get worse?

It’s always been bad, but after dealing with a particular one for the past few days - and encountering the worst language gap he has in his entire life - my love would like to know how to say the following phrases in Hindi:

“Let me speak with a supervisor.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. You can’t help me.”

“I won’t say it again: Put your supervisor on the line.”

“No. Supervisor. NOW.”

“Because YOU, my friend, are retarded.”

Politically correct is for pussies.

Philosophy is a humorous anecdote which contains a shadow or reflection of truth … except that no one laughs.

Some of the things he said last Friday night at the grand opening of the Pink Elepant Room:

The truly democratic martini: Hand me a glass of gin and tell me there’s vermouth in it.

Washington, DC: The city that keeps its secrets on the front page.

Then I ran out of paper and voice memo space on my phone.

I have to start carrying my voice recorder.

I’ve been trying to get my checking account information changed on my dental insurance coverage for the last month. The old account is now closed, my next payment will bounce, and no one at the customer service number will answer or return a voicemail message.

For two weeks now I’ve been working on getting executive suite and conference room space for meetings we have at the end of February. I’ve sent out five inquiries and heard back from two companies, one of which refuses to give a quote for weekend use of their facilities, even though we’ve clearly indicated we’d be willing to pay extra for the privilege.

We went to look at a house last Friday where the owner is still in residence. They were called and informed what day and time we were coming. On arrival, a woman answered the door in a robe and said it wasn’t a good time to see the property. Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re trying to sell a house in a market where foreclosures are at 19% and $600K homes are selling at half price, you entertain ALL callers, no matter how irritated or invaded you feel personally.

I went to a bead store in Arvada and was ignored by their one employee, who found it more interesting to chat on her cell phone than to take a moment to let me see items in a glass case.

I’ve called a real estate agent’s office repetitively to inquire about a property listed with his name on it. He finally returned a call this morning to say the property went under contract this past weekend, though I’d inquired about it over a week ago.

At Sam’s Club yesterday, as is our habit when we go there, my love waited in line to pay for our items while I went to the snack counter to get a slice of pizza for us to share on the way home. There was but one employee there and he insisted on ignoring me and the other person waiting in favor of chatting with his homeboy at the far end of the counter. At one point, he gave said homeboy a free slice and a Slurpee. I never did capture his attention long enough to get my pizza and I spoke to store management about it before leaving.

I am becoming convinced our country isn’t really headed for recession. It’s simply that no one understands customer service well enough to get the money that’s available to exchange hands and our economy slows down as a result.

Get off your ass and take my cash.

In January of 1990, my left lung spontaneously collapsed.

I’m not kidding. I was blow-drying my hair and BAM! my entire left side went out.

I was in such pain I couldn’t even explain to the emergency room personnel what was wrong. Not that I knew myself, but I kept pointing to my shoulder, rocking back and forth, and crying. And I don’t cry in public, so you can imagine what kind of physical hell I was in.

They shot me up with too much with Demerol and I passed out. I came to in front of an x-ray machine. They took pictures of my shoulder, couldn’t find anything, and sent me home with painkillers.

I’m not kidding about that, either. I may be the only person on this earth who survived sleeping a night with only one lung.

The hospital called at 6am the next morning and told me to come back in right away. The interns who had looked at my x-ray had missed something very important, mainly that MY LUNG WAS COLLAPSED, and the doctor on duty hadn’t gotten around to checking their work until morning.

I had a case against the hospital, but I didn’t follow through with it. See, Karma or the universe or whatever was looking out for me, because my then-husband (that would be #2) had just started a job with full medical coverage for both of us … a benefit which had started just three days before I wound up in the hospital.

There was no need to be vindictive. When the universe hands you an out - like having 100% coverage health insurance for three days before it’s genuinely necessary - you pay it forward.

This was 18 years ago and, while I’ve forgotten many things in that time, I can recall every last detail about that hospital stay. It was traumatic, to say the least.

Two weeks, three chest tubes, four different pain killers on rotation, a dozen x-rays, one major surgery, and tons of rehabilitation later, I got over it. I even learned to sing opera again.

Now here I sit, another major surgery on my horizon. At least this time it won’t be a surprise.

I get to experience the joy of a uterine and cervical hysterectomy. The ovaries get to stay because evidently I need them for menopause … unless the surgeon finds fibroids on them, too.

The only bit that bothers me is that I, the super independent misanthrope, will require caretaking for nearly the entire first week after the surgery.

My love has to work to keep us in the manner to which we’ve become accustomed (canned chili, Lean Cuisines, and ramen noodles notwithstanding) and to pay the deductible we’ll owe the insurance company when it’s over.

I will be calling in favors on this one.

Pay it forward.

And lest you think my crab factor will be up around 500% - which it will, no doubt - and that thought alone is making you less than excited about my calling on you, consider that it will be much worse at the end of six weeks.

That’s when I will get to have sex again.

Week 5: Crab factor 5000%. Murder: Imminent.

What does the following mean?

Winning bidder agrees to contact me within 3 days of auction end and indicate how payment will be made. PayPal payments must be received within 5 days of auction end, while money orders / cashier’s checks must be received within 10 days of auction end.

I just received a PayPal payment on an auction that ended a WEEK ago and there was not a peep from the Buyer during those 7 days. They still haven’t contacted me about payment … or anything else, for that matter.

Explicit directions, evidently, are not explicit enough.

I could explain the auction rules to the Buyer, refund their money, and relist the item, but what would be the point in that? I’d still be stuck with an item I don’t want and I’d have to pay more listing fees. Plus, they might vindictively post negative feedback on me, which is annoying to say the least. (I’ve tried to have a negative removed … it worked, but it was a bitch to do.)

Honestly, I don’t know how the regular Sellers on eBay do it. I can’t imagine the level of idiot they deal with on a daily basis.

I made it fool-proof and I was sent a better fool.

As further proof that we as a people have gone completely over the edge on weddings, these people are hiring officiants to write and perform custom weddings. (Their want ad, which I ran into on Denver Craig’s List, is here.)

I won’t lie, I thought about applying. I have the experience they need - someone whose good with people, can write creatively, is computer literate, and doesn’t mind speaking in public. I’ve even planned and implemented two of my own wedding shindigs, so I know what’s involved.

Then I recalled the clips I’ve seen of Bridezillas and Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?, and I realized something very important:

I would, without a doubt, eventually choke a bitch.

Then there’s the trouble I would get into with randy groomsmen …

If weddings are in season, does that mean we can shoot them?